


Landslide

by secretlyryanross



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 21:22:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3584517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretlyryanross/pseuds/secretlyryanross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My life has been tipped over and pushed into the confinements of hot and cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landslide

It’s the nights where I lay awake covered in darkness, a thick sheen of sweat on my brow as I roll around in the covers. Random hotel suite number 172 smells different. Like scotch or vodka, something that burns my nose and makes my eyes water. It’s different, too different. I long for the same arms that used to squeeze me on nights like these, the ones that are ghosts of themselves now. 

Dead silence looms over me, stilling the air. I find it hard to breathe on nights like these. The covers feel suffocating, the air too hot, too cold, never just right. Nothings ever just right anymore, not the way my leather jacket hangs on the knob to the bathroom door like it never did before, not the full ash tray on the beside table. He used to take care of those things before I even noticed them. 

I can’t even get comfortable, I come to the realization. My lukewarm life has been tipped over and pushed into the confinements of hot and cold. I feel like a foreigner in my own life. I don’t belong this way, can’t think of the last time I’ve ever actually smiled a real smile. 

My smiles were all saved up for him and he took them with him when he died. He took them and smashed them to pieces and my supply is dangerously low. I decide to throw the rest out on a Sunday in the near future, not needing them weighing me down anymore. Never did, never thought I would. 

But there was the glimmer of hope that he’d walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair glistening and dripping with water. He’d smile at me like I was a prize to be won, his brown eyes would twinkle as he looked my way. I had a feeling my expression mirrored his.

I remember how dull his eyes looked as he went. I held him in my arms for the last time, muttering things like “it’s gonna be okay” and “don’t worry, baby.” I’m a liar, a filthy one. I think he knew I was just lying to myself, but either way. I’m still just as fucked. 

The blood pooling around him was almost an unreal type of black-red. It stuck to my fingers for what seemed like weeks. I scrubbed at my skin until it was red raw and yet I could still see it sticking to my skin, wet like it was just yesterday. 

He was wearing a ratty Nirvana t-shirt when he went. I remember because I was giving him grief about how it’d get ruined. I think I’d remember if I didn’t make him feel silly for it. He still wore it with pride, saying that it’d be fine, it’s just one vamp. One vamp.

The words echo in my head at an alarmingly loud rate, repeating until it turned into a mantra. I cover my ears, trying to shield it. His voice is hauntingly different, almost dead. Monotonous. It shocked me so much the first time I heard it in my head that I’d cried into Patrick’s shirt for a good two hours before Pete needed him in his office. I fell asleep with nightmares of Brendon again that night.

Brendon. God, his name hurts to say, even in my head. A boy with a pair of sparkling brown eyes and dark brown hair comes to mind, smiling at me like I was the sun and he was just the Earth. It felt like the other way around, but I never said that to him. Never had the guts to see the smile slip from his face and be returned with a sort of sorrow that I was sure would be permanent each time it appeared. 

I let out a choked sob into the dusty pillow beneath my head. It wasn’t high class or anything, I didn’t want to think I had the money for that. I did, I knew I did. There was something in the back of my head using that excuse, because Brendon and I used to stay in the high class. The wine and late night TV being more than enough to trigger me into a sobbing mess. We’d always watch Friends because it was on later, but only if we had time. Brendon always exclaimed that Phoebe was his favorite, but of course Rachel and Monica tie for second. He talked about how cute David Schwimmer used to be and how dorky Joey was and it all just reminded me of him.

Everything reminds me of him.

Brendon plagues my life more than venom would plague a vampires blood stream. Which is indefinitely impossible, but who the fuck makes the rules anymore? God? Satan? I’d like to see one of them try to get through the 50 layers of fucked up that is Ryan Ross. No celestial motherfucker can fix this train wreck, the only person that could even try would be Brendon. Brendon… Brendon. 

“Brendon,” I whisper into the too cold, too hot air. It’s as if times stops. I’m waiting for a “yeah, Ry?” that never comes.

It’ll never come again.

And yeah, if I wasn't crying before I am now.

I held him in my arms and his last dying breath was an incoherent mumble that I’d like to think was him calling me a moron or an idiot or maybe even the cliche statement of love. The tears squeeze past my eyelids, leaking onto my pillow and creating an ugly wet spot. 

Patrick and Pete were worried when I left, probably thinking I’d kill myself. Which I might, who the fuck knows, but I’m still kicking. Barely. 

How can I kick when all I see is the Vampire slitting Brendon’s throat with her fingernail. I remember her going to cut herself right when I sliced the bitches head off. I yelled for God, for some sort of Angel. I yelled so loud that my throat still hurts and it’s been two months. I can still feel the sobs rip through my throat as I kneeled next to him, taking him into my arms and shushing him. Promises I couldn’t keep slipped out of my mouth and I knew it, but I didn’t have the strength to admit what was going to happen to him. Couldn’t admit to myself that the twinkle in his eyes wasn’t even there anymore, wasn’t going to be there /ever/ again. I just told him it’d be alright. Told him he’d live, that we’d live and be a happy family until we’re at least 40 and die of lung cancer or something of the likes.

I couldn’t keep that promise, I can’t keep any promise. All I bring in my trail is a history of deaths and broken promises.

It’s all I can bring.

I fall asleep to the soft sounds of Brendon singing Landslide inside my head.

It still isn’t as good as the real thing.


End file.
